


not a thousand, just one

by Medie



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mille viae ducunt homines per saecula Romam (A thousand roads lead men forever to Rome) - Finch has only ever needed the one: Reese. However he begins this quest of his, there's only one person who will walk with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a thousand, just one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [humanalias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanalias/gifts).



> My thanks to my betas (specifically skieswideopen and rhi) as well as azar who suffered through my brainstorming

He's going to die. The odds are very clear about that and have been from the moment he realized that he wasn't alone in the building. It's not all that surprising. He's been expecting this for quite some time. Long before the moment that the project fell apart and Nathan bled out atop him, killed by bullets meant for him.

Bullets which, apparently, were only delayed, not prevented.

There's something oddly lifting about the moment. It's finally arrived. It's time. Should it be required, all he needs is the two seconds it it will take to speak the words that will ensure the Machine goes with him. If he needs them. 

He looks at the laptop before him. The camera's light is on. Good. 

The Machine is watching. It's a relief to know he won't need to take the risk of speaking. There's no chance he would complete even the first syllable. 

There's no sound behind him. Nothing to warn him of the fate he knows is coming. His executioner is as silent as the grave he's about to send Harold to.

It's a pity. Harold's almost curious to know who they've sent after him and, of course, if he has any idea just what this assignment really is. He hopes not. It's bad enough to know he's adding another body to the list aside from his own, for they'll never let the man live knowing he's been so close to the Machine.

He thinks about that as the moments tick away, carrying him ever closer to the final shot that will end things. The moment hanging over him like Damocles and his blade. Harold closes his eyes, steeling himself for it all to end. 

But it doesn't. 

There's a breath, the faintest of one, and when Harold looks, he understands. Before them are screens that now light up and fill with data, a veritable deluge of text and images that mean nothing to Harold but everything to the man behind him.

It seems the Machine is trying to save him. 

Or not just him. Reading along with his assassin, Harold realizes he's made a mistake in judging the Machine's motives. It is saving him, yes, but only in the course of saving his assassin. Interesting and promising. The Machine is not shirking its duty toward others to save him, as it might have in their early stages, but has found the appropriate balance.

At least, in this case, it seems to have. Testing his hypothesis will be difficult and will take time. If they survive this, he plans to take every precaution possible to avoid these circumstances being repeated.

And, he thinks, they will survive this. The information scrolling by has turned from informative to heartbreaking and Harold takes it in as such. Oh, but this would grieve Nathan so and, perhaps, it's grieving him just as much. He shouldn't know this. He shouldn't know any of it. There's so much here, so much pain, and he need not read between any lines to see it. 

"An Orwellian nightmare, indeed," he murmurs. It's fortunate, then, that so few people will have to live with it. Still, he apologizes to Nathan's ghost and, then, he apologizes to the living one behind him.

"Do you see?" he asks, not daring to turn his head. "Do you understand?"

"They're going to take this."

"If you let them." Harold closes his eyes. "Do you know what they'll do with it?" 

The gun lowers. "Yes," Reese says, "I believe I do." 

*

"It was meant to save lives," he says, later. His men, conscious now, are swarming the building to take apart the equipment for relocation. Reese is with him still, sitting at the table with a mug of badly brewed tea. Harold is distracted, discomfited, and he watches the work with difficulty. It will be some time in the new safehouse before he feels at ease with his equipment again. 

The Machine will not be wholly with him this time. He's prepared the new servers and the new code. No one will be able to completely rein it in, ever again. No one will be able to compromise it. The thought is reassuring in the abstract, but does little to comfort him now.

He forces himself to continue speaking, rather than watch his life as it has become be swiftly packed away in very small boxes. "After 9/11, we were asked to design something which would protect the American people. Analyze intelligence from multiple sources, find credible threats, and report them. From that request came the Machine." 

"They don't want to use it just for that anymore, do they?" 

"No, Mr. Reese, they don't. The Machine's access is unprecedented and it learns. It can find things, find people, that no one else can. Imagine what it might be capable of, if someone were able to divert it from its original purpose." Harold watches the amusement drain from Reese's face as he considers exactly that. "You understand."

"That's why they sent me. You're going to lock it away."

"And they wish to take possession first. I can't allow that. The Machine is too much temptation for anyone. When the programming is finalized, I'll prevent even myself from accessing the code."

"But not the data." 

"No," Harold says. "Not the data." 

Reese looks intrigued by that. Whether he's grasped Harold's intent or not is unclear. Even more unclear is whether or not Reese might be willing to participate and Harold is unwilling to speculate. It's too premature for that. He doesn't know enough about the man. For all it has amassed, even the Machine cannot predict a man's conscience.

These things need to be approached carefully. Unfortunately, he hasn't the freedom for care and caution right now. 

"It's all right, Harold. I know I'm going with you," Reese says, the words falling easily from his mouth. "You can't take the risk of me leaving."

"Even though."

"Yes," Reese nods, "Even though." He grins, easily and too relaxed to be real. "Besides, gone this long? They'll just kill me anyway." 

"Yes," Harold agrees. "And that, Mr. Reese is a very good idea." 

*

The clock is ticking. Mr. Reese's record is extremely clear as to his punctuality. There isn't much time.

That's fine.

Harold's never needed much.

Even less to accomplish this.

*

"It's a pity," he says, shivering against the winter chill. "I liked that old house."

"It did have character," Reese agrees. "Burns well too." 

"Oh, yes, there should barely be enough left. Terrible business. It'll make identifying our bodies so very difficult."

Standing at the edge of the woods, out of sight of the emergency vehicles barrelling up the drive, they watch the house burn. Behind them, Harold's men are bringing the equipment up from the secondary escape tunnel. 

"Tell me, Mr. Reese, have you died before?"

Harold knows, of course. He and his Machine have amassed a rather impressive amount of data on John Reese and all the aliases that came before. Harold could very likely know more about the man than he does himself. 

It's disturbing that such a realization has long since ceased to _be_ disturbing. 

Still, it is better to hear it straight from the man himself. 

"Once or twice. This one's the most memorable of them, though." 

"I'm glad. A man likes to be remembered." 

*

He has any number of properties from which to choose their new base of operations. Sentimentality and practicality lead him to a former library. It seems appropriate and is all the better for being defensible and, by means of a clever technicality, nonexistent. 

And he likes it. 

It feels right to bring the Machine's 'face' to a library. It is the greatest source of information the world will never know. 

He smiles to think of it and settles in at his computers. John prowls the perimeter, setting up security of his own and laying claim with every single fall of his foot. "They'll be looking for me," he says upon returning. "They won't believe I'm dead." 

"They were never meant to believe you died in the fire, Mr. Reese," Harold says, almost pleasant as he works. "I only needed them to be confused for a little while. Just long enough, in fact."

"Long enough to do what, precisely?"

"Erase you. Modern day surveillance techniques are woefully inadequate to deal with something of the Machine's capability. That's why they want it so badly." He's aware there's a touch of pride in his voice. They killed his friend, would have killed him, and he's proud of the reason why. 

Part of him feels profoundly horrified to know that. He wishes it silent. There's no room for such frailties right now. Not when he's on the cusp of atoning for so much.

"Do they know who you are?"

"No, I don't believe so. Nathan and I were always very careful to make sure they thought him the brains behind the operation. As far as they know, I'm a simple technician that Nathan trusted to hide the Machine from them." Harold looks up from the computer. "I could be wrong, of course. They did send _you_ to deal with me."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Reese replies. There's something close to laughter in his voice. "What are you planning, Harold?"

He's behind Harold now, close enough that Harold can feel the warmth of his body. He's never been comfortable with someone so close, standing over him as Reese is, but oddly enough it doesn't bother him now. 

He keeps working, doing his best to make John Reese and all his aliases disappear. 

"The Machine doesn't just detect acts of terror, Mr. Reese. It sees _everything_. Violent crimes involving ordinary people. The government considers these crimes irrelevant. I can't. People are dying, Mr. Reese, but I can't save them by myself. I lack certain skills to do so." 

"Skills that I just happen to have." 

Harold finishes erasing Reese. They'll rebuild the data in time, but it will be exceedingly difficult.

Reese circles around to sit at Harold's side. He's almost smiling again. 

"You wanted them to send someone, didn't you?"

Harold thinks of the file on his computer. The Machine's computations on who the CIA might send to deal with him and the chances of successful persuasion of each and every name on that list. 

Reese had topped both. 

"No, Mr. Reese, I didn't want them to send someone. I wanted them to send you."

Reese's smile fades. 

"Hell of a gamble, Harold. Risking your life like that. What if the Machine hadn't tried to save me? What if it had failed?"

Then all would be lost. 

Harold isn't immortal. The Machine will need to replace them someday. It will need to know how to select appropriate candidates and recruit them.

"It didn't, John," he says, quietly. "And that's all that matters."


End file.
